


Follows-Ruined-Footsteps

by hollowsbest



Series: Life on the Midsummer Space Station [1]
Category: Midsummer Station, Original Work
Genre: Alien Culture, Backstory, Character Study, Gen, Science Fiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-09
Updated: 2021-01-09
Packaged: 2021-03-12 23:21:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28643592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hollowsbest/pseuds/hollowsbest
Summary: A young Chireem reflects on how she got her name, and what set her on this path.
Series: Life on the Midsummer Space Station [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2099097
Kudos: 1





	Follows-Ruined-Footsteps

From the moment you hatched, until the moment you chose a supposed ‘ruined’ path, you were known only as ‘hatchling’ or ‘you’ or ‘that one over there’. An intentional decision meant to encourage making a name for yourself, performing exceptionally, to make one want _recognition_ in a sea of sameness.

The problem with this, is not only are _you_ attempting to gain recognition for feats of prowess, the rest of your clutch is as well. Leading to a savage tide of one-upmanship and sabotage, trying to drag everyone else down while being the last one left standing. This wasn’t only allowed, it was _encouraged_.

An incredibly hostile environment, at which you _excelled_. Far more than your peers in the very least, but it didn’t gain you any recognition- not the kind you wanted. You didn’t become any more than ‘hatchling’, you didn’t get a _name_ , nothing. All you got were higher and higher expectations, that kept piling higher and higher until you couldn’t keep up, couldn’t keep pace. You were trying to outrun a speeding shuttle, and all it got you were skinned knees and ruffled feathers.

It felt like you’d been dunked in ice water when you’d realised, put it together in your head. They would never give you what you wanted, not without you risking yourself, not without the spilling of blood. (And how funny was that? A Chireem that doesn’t want to kill.) It feels somewhat distant now, the revelation on the eve of your clutch’s 18th. You’d all been hoarding food by that point, preparing for the change to come.  
You hadn’t felt the ravenous hunger yet, but it was expected to be soon. Most of your hatchmates had already started getting the lumps (or they’d mistaken their spines for it, knowing their intelligence.) The supervisors had retreated for the cycle, expecting wings to come next wake, and everyone exhausted from change or the screams that would occur during the night.

It feels distant now, eight years ago, but it was so very important.

You can’t remember what sparked it, whether it was the scream of a hatchmate or your spiralling thought processes, you were hit with a deep, gripping _need_ to leave. To find yourself elsewhere, to gain a _name_ elsewhere, recognition. The attention you desperately crave even now.

You know you packed and prepared, you know you left your bunk, left the hatchling quarters, traversing the training grounds until you came to the shipyard. You can’t remember how you got past the guard, and onto a ship. How you, with knowledge gifted by the flight sims you were all made to run, got a small flyer to sputter to life; a speeder just big enough for a single chireem to live on.  
But you remember your elation, your _delight_ , as you shot out of the shipyard and broke through the atmosphere. The equal amount of terror that was brought with it, tempering your thoughts enough to skip your way out of the system, away from everything you knew.

But hopefully, towards something better.

* * *

Your wings came in late. Far later than expected. Late enough that you’d started to worry. After a few months of scavenging and surviving and still not having hit the commonly talked about hunger that came before the change, you may have… Panicked slightly.

You found a safe haven of sorts, of chireem who’d left the Empire. Who wouldn’t drag you back kicking and screaming to your clutch to finish your training, and could tell you what was _wrong_. If you were sick, if you were a genetic freak and were never getting your wings, if you were missing a vitamin that expedited the process.

They still didn’t give you a name, despite welcoming you with open arms.

Sometimes, their healer told you after you’d mentioned your lack of wings and age, there are late bloomers. Hatchlings who get their wings months, even in one extreme case, a _year_ late. You’re just one of them, she said. Seeming to think this was comforting.

(But all it felt like, was your first true failure.)

You kept close to the healer, purely out of fear something _was_ wrong and she’d missed it, yet would somehow notice if it got worse? You’re not sure of your logic there, though you know that sticking close and watching as she kept the little community healthy is what caused your fascination with the field of medicine. She even let you help out after a few weeks of shadowing her. By the time your wings came in, you’d found yourself embedded in the community in a way you never intended. Acting assistant, and enjoying it far more than any task ever set by your previous supervisors.

But it wasn’t _enough_ , you still weren’t called much more than hatchling, a child in their eyes and nothing more. You spent five months there, slowly losing patience and your desire to stay. But where would you go? What would you do? It comes together slowly, but you do finally grasp what you want to do. What you might actually want to do for the future. How you’ll _make your mark_.

And finally, _finally_ , with your announcement of leaving and how deadset you are on going, you get your name. Bestowed due to their perceived hubris of your choices and the road you’ll go down, one many have walked and failed.

But one _**you**_ will succeed.

Dr. Follows-Ruined-Footsteps has a _very_ nice ring to it.

**Author's Note:**

> fun fact about chireem and their wings, after sustaining the rapid growth by eating a fuck ton, the wings force themselves from the chireem's back! splitting skin and the like  
> it's not pretty, but is a mark of adulthood and nets you your first assignment for the empire (ikr super lame)


End file.
